


Duty

by WahlBuilder



Series: 30 days of rarepairs [1]
Category: Gaunt's Ghosts - Dan Abnett, Warhammer 40k (Novels) - Various Authors
Genre: Drinking Games, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-01
Updated: 2017-09-01
Packaged: 2018-12-22 14:22:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11969220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WahlBuilder/pseuds/WahlBuilder
Summary: A commissar and his junior walk into a bar.





	Duty

“And how is that game called again?” Nahum was watching his mentor with what he hoped would clearly read as incredulousness. Commissar Hark was overly cheerful which was, in Nahum’s mind, overly suspicious, but Hark’s voice, softer than his usual command voice, sounded genuine, so Nahum couldn’t bring himself to mind.

Nahum knew his mentor well, his fierce loyalty to the Regiment and to Gaunt, his bulldoggish bite that suited his appearance well—and was fabricated for the most part exactly because it fitted his looks.

Not every commissar could lead with sheer charisma and the force of their character, but every commissar had to rely on their strengths and compensate for their weaknesses. And every commissar had to try to be a good human being.

That’s what Nahum had learnt—and continued learning—from both Gaunt and Hark.

“It’s called the Duty game,” his mentor replied at last, leading Nahum down narrow steps and through a creaking door with a stained glass piece that Nahum couldn’t see clearly, and into a dark basement bar.

Nahum lowered his collar and considered unbuttoning his coat as a wave of heavy warm air punched him in the chest. Neither of them was wearing his stormcoat or cap, but the Guard-filled bar would obviously know who they were. Usually, the Guard could sense it right away. If you were a proper commissar, Hark would have added.

Nahum hoped he was a proper commissar—or commissar-to-be, anyway. The talks didn’t halt around them as Nahum’s mentor made his way around the small tables, but Nahum could feel himself being measured—and, surprisingly, no hostile daggers were thrown into his back, so to speak.

The bartender, broad-shouldered and so tall that the whole bar seemed diminished by them, raised their hand and smiled, and called, “Viktor!”

So, his mentor had been here before. Of course he had, Nahum thought, how else would he find the place? It was not entirely visible from the street, and that was why, perhaps, the Guard preferred it. He could notice a few different badges, too, but decided it was not good to stare, so he hastened after Hark.

Already there were four shots in front of his mentor, filled with a strange, electric-purple liquid that sloshed menacingly in the glass as Hark picked three of the shots. Nahum picked the fourth. In the foggy, smoke-dimmed light it seemed to glow.

“I know the name is not _proper_ ,” Hark called over his shoulder when he moved further, not even checking whether Nahum was following him, just like before.

Nahum glanced from the dangerous liquid up and noticed that Hark’s hair had grown out and a rebellious lock was sticking to the side right over his left ear. Nahum had to strangle the urge to run his fingers over it and righten it.

Emperor forgive him, it was getting harder to strangle such urges lately.

Nahum had learnt well that the Ghosts were different in many ways, and things he would have expected from any other regiment did not apply here and sometimes were discouraged, even despised among the Ghosts. He thought it was something with having nothing—nothing at all—to lose except for the people around you.

Still, Viktor Hark was his superior and his mentor.

So Nahum tightened his grip on himself and his glass.

Hark was making himself comfortable in one of the darker booths along the walls, and Nahum had to tighten the grip even more, because the small space would make him sit very close to his mentor. At least, he hoped, the heavy, lung-burning smoke in the air and the scent of wood wall panels would not allow him to chase after Hark’s aftershave like a junkie.

He hadn’t accounted for Hark’s dimensions: when he squeezed himself into the booth, he was mostly pressed between a wall and a lot of Viktor Hark. Who had unbuttoned his coat. His shirt was crispy white against his dark skin.

Nahum lowered his glass on the table with a bit more force than necessary. Unfortunately, the purple liquid only sloshed again, never overflowing the rim of the glass. The heavy air’s disadvantage was that Nahum was now being slowly enveloped by Hark’s scent—fresh, electric-blue aftershave sweetened by lho-stick smoke. He must have been with Doctor Curth. That was the only occasion on which he would smoke.

Nahum was peering into the glass like it could produce the Emperor’s salvation for him amid strange swirls that he only now noticed.

“Now, it is called both because of this drink,” Hark said, and Nahum startled, nearly hitting the table with his knees.

Hark was so close his breath touched Nahum’s cheek. His burning cheek.

The bar was really, really hot, but Nahum didn’t dare to take off his coat. He clasped his hands on his lap.

“This drink,” Hark continued right over Nahum’s cheek, “is called Guardsman’s Duty, not very imaginative, but don’t ask what’s in there. You wouldn’t like the list. And another reason is the recital. Do you know it? _What is our Duty?_ ”

“ _To serve the Emperor’s Will_ ,” Nahum muttered. The swirling of the purple abomination was getting mesmerising—and Hark’s presence blocked out everything else.

_What is the Emperor’s Will?_

_That we fight and die._

The litany, simple and circular, as Nahum knew, was mostly used by the Emperor’s Space Marines.

“You know it. Good.” The old couch creaked under Hark as he leaned away slightly.

_What is Death?_

_It is our Duty._

Nahum _did_ hit his knee on the table when a hand closed over his, pressing his fingers into the glass. Hark’s palm was hot and dry and very calloused. Nahum stared at it like a strange, separate being. He wanted to lift it and put it… Somewhere. Away. On himself.

_What is our Duty?_

His head was filling with pain.

_To serve the Emperor’s Will._

“You drink it and recite the first question,” Hark’s voice said from some distant shore. “Then I drink and say the first answer. Then you drink again and ask the second question, and I drink and answer. And so on until one of us can neither ask nor answer.”

“And that is the whole game?” Nahum managed to ask. He didn’t want to drink, hoping the hot hand on his would stay forever. Or at least, for a few more seconds.

“Pretty much. Well? You don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

_What is the Emperor’s Will?_

He shouldn’t, Nahum told himself. He wasn’t talkative when drunk but was… more tactile. Which could lead to unnecessary complications.

_That we fight and die._

Something clinked, and a few voices laughed.

_What is Death?_

Nahum flexed his fingers and lifted the shot to his lips.

_It is our Duty._

“What is our Duty?” he croaked between coughs as the purple liquid burned down his throat. He couldn’t even remember its taste.

When looked up at Hark, his mentor was smiling.


End file.
